


Spoons

by maximum_overboner



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Fluffy, Hand Jobs, M/M, reader bottoms, reader is dmab, spine play, tooth rottingly fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 22:12:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7072537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximum_overboner/pseuds/maximum_overboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about being a skeleton is that Humans present so many mysteries! Mysteries that are worth delving into, and exploring with great detail.</p><p>In which Papyrus cuddles up and it escalates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spoons

**Author's Note:**

> an anon on my tumblr requested a fluffy, fluffy, fluffy pap fic with a dmab reader, as well as a few people from /y/. I made the reader 'silent' in this one, please tell me which style you prefer. I hope you enjoy it!

  If there was one thing Papyrus never tired of it was flesh.

  Not even in the carnal sense, although he did appreciate that aspect of life. It was the small, sometimes inscrutable habits that came with a brain, and a bloodstream, and skin, and organs, and sweat. The day-to-day mundanities, the banal parts that needed to be taken care of to continue functioning. Once, when you were in the shower, zoning out, and he was in the bathroom brushing his teeth you saw his arm peep around from the curtain and grope uselessly at the air. He found your head, and thus your hair, doused in lather, and awkwardly felt, clumsily, though with great purpose. You did not say anything, the warm water, the steam, the motions of his digits against the skin of your scalp made it almost trance-like, soothing, as if he were plucking your tenseness like string from a spool and pulling it out of you. With a mystified ‘OOOH!’ he withdrew his hand before wiping it with a towel. There were no words exchanged, there didn’t need to be. You kept showering, and he set about brushing his teeth, and then his jaw, and then his cheekbones, because normal soap didn’t seem to cut it for him apparently. If he didn’t smell of mint at all times he would declare himself to be an ‘UNKEMPT SAVAGE’. You had seen Sans. Papyrus showered every day. He was far from it.

  You remembered the day you sat him down to explain the digestive system, and how his earnest, honest wonder had slowly morphed to horror. He kept his eyes locked so as not to offend you, but you knew he was disgusted. That made it funnier, to you, as you launched into your spiel and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, screaming internally.

  You had taken to casually mentioning the things you were doing, just in passing, just as you went by. Mentioning how your skin chapped in cold weather, goosebumps, that stubble itched, and every time he would drop what he was doing to listen, enraptured, commenting on the odd similarities and the stark differences in your physiologies. You still were not sure how he functioned, exactly, even after Papyrus had made a considerable attempt to explain and Sans had created many poorly drawn diagrams. After a while you had judged it best not to question it; he was your cute skeleton boyfriend, and the fact he could eat, drink and fuck was something that you had accepted as part of the package.

  You had been sat on the couch in his home, on your phone, and had barely registered when he had sat down next to you, hands neatly placed on his knees. You felt his gaze on you, but left him to it, as he sometimes liked to look affectionately at you. You did notice, however, when he leaned his weight onto you, a not-so-subtle hint that he was feeling needy. You glanced to him, phone still in your hands, the weight of his head balanced on your shoulder. You gave it a peck, and he giggled.

  You asked him if he wanted to spoon, and he at least had the decency to act surprised. Papyrus let out a trill of delight, pulling you into a crushing hug as he always did when physical intimacy was on the table, which it often was, but he enjoyed it so much that it felt rude for him to not convey his gratitude. He slipped off his pauldrons, unhooked his chestplate to aid cuddling, leaving him in his shorts and a black tanktop and clattered his hand against his chest in glee, more than ready for every ounce of attention he could soak up.

  “I’M READY!”

  You opened your arms to him, and he threw himself at you, toppling you both until he had manoeuvred his way to your back, settling into a snug dip in the sofa. He sighed, and you leaned back to accommodate his large frame, until he was hooked over you, arms around your waist and head resting on yours. His jaw rumbled as he spoke, and it was as mystifying as ever.  
  
  “THE FUN THING ABOUT BEING THE BIG SPOON,” he began, “IS THAT I GET TO HAVE ALL THE FUN OF HUGGING WITH NONE OF THE SOCIETAL PRESSURES OF BEING ‘SQUISHY’ OR ‘COMFORTABLE’ OR ‘NOT LIKE HUGGING A CHEESE GRATER’. VERY RELAXING!”

  You gave him a pat on the wrist, breathing in his smell and settling into the security, your phone forgotten. You let him babble on, his ribs pulsing with every syllable, his mind wandering.

  “I THINK THIS IS THE BEST SETUP FOR US, ANYWAY. IT’S A LITTLE AWKWARD WITH YOU BEHIND ME. I HAVE NOTHING TO REALLY HOLD ON TO, SO YOU END UP LOOPING YOUR ARMS IN ME LIKE I’M SOME KIND OF SEXUALLY ATTRACTIVE JUNGLE GYM. AND THAT IS... NOT SOMETHING I THINK I WANT TO BE? THIS IS NICER. YOU END UP LOOKING LIKE A JETPACK WHEN YOU’RE THE BIG SPOON, ANYWAY.”

  You mumbled an agreement, more than comfortable. You could doze off like this, and you were sure Papyrus would keep speaking. You found out that he did, in fact, continue his ramblings when you were asleep, but would make a point to whisper them so as not to wake you. You wondered if any of his points had subconsciously supplanted something important, as if you would wake up one day not being able to read or write but being more than capable of making angel-hair pasta in three hundred ways.

  “AND BESIDES, IT GIVES ME AN EXCELLENT OPPORTUNITY!”

  Before you could question him he set about exploring your body, chastely. His long, pristine fingers poked and prodded at your back, over your shirt, not setting out to elicit any sort of specific reaction but taking what he could nonetheless, enjoying the give of your muscles and skin. He started his pushing; in, and then up, as if feeling for something, from the top of your vertebrae before slowly tracing his way down to the small of your back. He felt a small lump, a knot, and before you could say anything he pushed until it released under the pressure. You gasped, and he withdrew his hand.

  “I HEARD A NOISE! DID I, UM... D-DID I JUST CRIPPLE YOU? CAN YOU FEEL YOUR LEGS? CAN YOU FEEL MY LEGS ON YOUR LEGS? ON A SCALE FROM ONE TO LEGS, HOW FINE ARE YOU?”

  You explained you were fine, and that you appreciated what he was doing. That soothed him. He returned to his motions, up and down your spine, feeling your vertebrae shift with the flat of his skeletal palm, the only sounds being that of your breathing and the soft clicks and pops of his body as he moved. He huffed, as if he has succeeded in whatever he had set out to do, before sliding his hand up the back of your shirt to settle at your ribcage. He pressed tentatively, not wanting to hurt you. Out of all the physical similarities between you, this was the one that amazed him the most.

  “WOWIE,” he said, trying to make his voice soft but failing.

  He let his fingers walk up the length of your ribs, the fabric of your shirt stretching under his motions, one digit to each rib as he travelled, like steps. You shivered, the intimacy of the contact sending spats of warmth to your groin. You left him to it, however, as you were not sure if he was exploring your body out of innocent curiosity, rather than sexually. It was easy to tell when he was in the mood, his face would flush and he would stutter as he pressed into you, and so far everything had seemed quite chaste.

  He brought his mouth to your neck and blew, causing the hairs to rise on your skin. He giggled, transfixed.

  “WHY ARE THEY CALLED GOOSEBUMPS? WHERE ARE THE GEESE IN THIS SITUATION? I DON’T SEE GEESE. INSTEAD I SEE THESE...”

  He attempted to frame them in a flattering, cute, way.

  “... ADORABLE TUMOURS.”

  You chuckled. He had failed. And before you could go to answer him, he slid his hands down to rest at the jut of your hips, pressing in there as well, the sudden contact making you arch your back. This must have been deliberate, the way his hands kneaded at you, dangerously close to your cock, but he seemed as oblivious as ever. There was a real chance that he had not caught on to what he was doing to you.

  Papyrus huffed into your hair delightedly, slipping his palm under the waistband of your pants and settling it on your cock. He did not rub, or move, or do anything all that stimulating, but just let his hand lay there. He let out an appreciative hum, the noise drowning out the sound of your breath hitching and catching in your jaw, face on fire.

  “I’VE SEEN THINGS ON TELEVISION, AND ON THE INTERNET WHEN I AM ATTENDING TO MY RABID, FROTHING FANBASE, THAT SAY THAT PEOPLE DO THIS FOR SOME REASON? JUST RELAXING WITH THEIR HANDS DOWN THEIR PANTS OUTSIDE OF... WELL, YOU KNOW...”

  You balked at his ability to be coy over things like sex and masturbation whilst still pawing at you.

  He rolled his thumb over your cock absent-mindedly, in genuine, untainted curiosity. It was half-hard. It wouldn’t be, if he kept doing that. He tugged a little at your pubic hair, confused. Hair was always strange to him. What did it do? It was just sort of there, and he would always find an excuse to run his fingers through yours, always wondering, always curious.

  “I UNDERSTAND WHY. IT IS COMFORTABLE. I AM COMFORTABLE.”

  You told him his hands were freezing, tactfully leaving out that it heightened the sensation, gently pushing your hips backwards onto him to encourage him to go faster. You felt something hard against your ass, through your pants, and you wondered when his intentions changed.

  “ _VERY_ COMFORTABLE,” he purred, his breath warm on your neck, the fabric of your clothing shuffling under his slow, tortuous motions. He rolled your balls between his thumb and forefinger, before resuming his original plan of cupping at your cock. He paused when you looked at him.

  “WHAT? IT’S INTRIGUING, YOU CAN’T BLAME ME FOR BEING CURIOUS ABOUT THESE... EJACULATORY FUNBAGS! THEY’RE SO SOFT. I DON’T NEED THEM, SO THEY’RE STRANGE AND NEW TO ME.”

  You conceded. That was a reasonable point.

  You groaned, pressing into him further, desperate, the heat in you building to a sickening level. You heard him moan softly into the closed chamber of his jaw, the hand that rested on your hip tightening painfully. Precum dripped down your cock, and you slipped your pants down at the front to see him work at you, to see every pulse and twitch of his hand as he slowly teased you.

  You heard a lascivious rasp, that was almost a growl, hang in his throat. His act, though it wasn’t a façade, cracked in half. “OH,” he breathed, his hand cupping around your cock and tugging slowly and God, how you wanted him to speed up, “IT’S A SHAME TO LEAVE YOU HANGING, ISN’T IT? I CAN’T DO THAT! IT’S CRUEL!”

  Papyrus started tugging in earnest, dragging his teeth along the back of your neck, his frame encompassing you as one hand held you firm. You hissed through your teeth, grinding your ass against his shorts, against his cock, and to your delight he let out a high, throaty moan before composing himself. You weren’t sure if this was what he set out to do in the first place, or if it was a by-product of his exploration, but you were having too much fun to care. You heard every breath, every pant, every moan as you grinded on him, his breath hitting your ears and laying there, and you soaked up every last ounce. You reached back with one hand to tug down his shorts, and to your amusement (and his mortification) he squeaked, thrusting into your hand. You turned slightly to face him, the couch creaking under your motions, and kissed him, to which he responded deeply, sensually. You liked this part. He was like an open book, and you could tell what he enjoyed by the way he kissed you. You brought on hand to his face to cup it and used the other to jerk him off in turn, one long, firm tug.

  He nearly crammed his tongue down your throat, moaning into your mouth.

  Ah, he had enjoyed that.

  You looked each other in the eye, enjoying the moment, and he rested his forehead on yours, mumbling something; words and praises and coos that slurred under pleasure, incoherence borne of lust. You pumped at his cock mercilessly, aided by his precum, slicking it and increasing the feeling. His eyes were lidded, almost shut entirely, and his tongue lolled from his mouth as his hips twitched up to meet your touches, hard and needy. He motioned for you to stop, to give him time to compose himself, yet he did not stop tending to you. The feeling was beginning to coil in the pit of your abdomen, and you couldn’t help but whimper.

  You were facing him fully now, both of you pumping, fucking each other with your hands. In a fit of lust, you dragged a hand to his exposed back, hearing him yelp, watching him shift on the couch. He had hinted that his bones were sensitive, and now was the time to explore that. You groped at his spine, trying to find leverage, and to your surprise he reared his head, face scrunched. You withdrew your hand, and to your surprise he gently grabbed your palm out of the air, face flush and ribcage heaving, and brought it back to his spine. His grip was loose, and ready to melt away at your discomfort, but you began slithering your fingers up and down, scraping gently with your nails and he squealed into his palm, shaking. Ah.

  It wasn’t pain at all. Good.

  You worked away at his back, mimicking the motions he had used on you earlier, aware that he was probably doing to you what he wanted done to himself. Slow, careful rubs, sensitive and dripping in sensuality; allowing you to touch one of the most vulnerable parts of himself. His eyelids fluttered shut and he rose to meet your touches, pumping his pelvis into your palm, thick trails of pre-cum beading the end of his cock. He was forced to withdraw his hand from you to grasp at the cushions to his sides, overwhelmed with sensation, craning his lower half forward as he moaned and gasped and cried out your name, over and over and over--

  “S-STOP!”

  You paused your motions, looking at him.

  He was red, flushed, almost incoherent with lust, with want, his body crying out for release.

“M-MY SPINE IS REALLY SENSITIVE, AND I W-WAS GOING TO, UH... Y-YOU KNOW.”

  You did know, but kept quiet to tease him, to draw the answer out.

  “... TO, TO CUM.” He coughed, averting his eyes. Always bashful. He thought of another idea, one that would give him time to cool down a little.

  “WOULD YOU LIKE TO, AH...”  
  
  Get fucked in the ass?

  “T-TURN AROUND, PLEASE?”

  He still couldn’t say it. Adorable.

  He motioned to say something, but stopped himself, beet-red. He unhooked his scarf from around his neck, before pointing to himself.

  “DO YOU MIND IF I...?”

  You motioned for him to go ahead.

  He grinned, eager, before securing it neatly around his eyes, leaving a gap at the bottom so he could see.

  You smiled sincerely, and he stood up to allow you to position yourself correctly; knees on the cushions and ass in the air, both of your arms braced against the back of the couch. His height allowed him to line up with you perfectly, without needing to squat, and you were thankful for that, because if he cramped up during the whole town would hear of it. He gingerly pulled your pants down, leaving your ass exposed, and tentatively ground his cock onto it, not daring to start without preparation. You felt him lean forward over you, whimpering, bringing two of his fingers to settle at the corner of your mouth, a silent plea, to which you gladly obliged him, allowing his digits entrance and sucking on them teasingly. He withdrew them with a pop. You felt a finger slip in you, slowly, always slowly, Papyrus being careful to stop at your discomfort and move when you relaxed until he could pump with ease. Soon one finger became two, pushing in and out, stretching you, and he braced his other hand against the small of your back as he fucked you mercilessly with his fingers. Every time he pushed his fingers in you, pushing against your clenching walls, your cock dribbled.

  Papyrus lowered his scarf fully, and you knew what that meant. You grit your teeth, holding your arms taught, feeling Papyrus’ cock push inside you, inch by painstaking inch.

  You heard him squeal, twitching against your insides, the sickening, churning heat in his pelvis compelling him to move, to fill you over and over. He was gentle, as he always was, groping at your hips and ass as he thrusted. His slurs, his vulgar moans, started again, with words strung between his whines.

  “AH, _AH_ , A-ARE YOU, _FFF_ \-- ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

  You barked out a yes, needing more, needing him to fuck you into the ground until neither of you could move, could even think of standing. At the apex of an especially brutal thrust, that you keened into, his hand found your cock once again. He was hunched over, his body over yours, pressing kisses and wet bites into your exposed flesh, talking all the while about how good it felt, how good you felt, praising you, encouraging you, repeating it over and over until it coalesced into a high whine, his scarf flapping against his face.

  You begged him for more, the couch shaking under your movements. He changed the way he moved, rolling his hips when he slid fully into you, making you shake as he fucked you sensually, sweetly. Hitting your sweet spot, the one that made your legs judder. The feeling of his hands around your cock, one that, in theory, should have been unpleasant, was everything you wanted in that moment. The firmness lended them a foreign, alien quality that highlighted that, yes, whilst you were similar there were still stark differences; mysteries and ambiguities you could both become lost in together. It was a thrill. There was a good chance that no other Human alive had experienced something like this. You were glad it was you.

  You felt his sweat drip on your back and a familiar pressure build deep in you, a white, sticky heat. You shook as you rutted into his hand, his fingers wrapping around the head of your cock and twisting, toying gently, so gently, at the tip until a feeling tore through you. It made you bob your hips, cumming hard, spurting white fluid onto the back of the couch. Slowly, it crept away and left a tingling and a weakness in your legs, and a pleasant, warm numbness. Papyrus was not finished, and you opened your legs more, anything to help him cum in you.

  He slammed his hand to your shoulders, cramming you back to meet his thrusts, his hips smacking into your ass so hard you were sure it was going to leave bruises. He was close, even the smallest movements forcing a noise from his closed jaw, every thrust making him cry out, gasp, whine. It was building, building, you could tell from the way his thrusts stopped and started, unable to find real purchase as he started to cum. With shaking breaths you pushed yourself back, milking his cock, and he ground his teeth so hard you could barely make out what he was saying.

  “MMF, MMF, AAH, CUMMING, C-CUM-- _CUMMING--_ ”

  With a deep, hard thrust he came, shaking, slurring, rocking over and over to draw out the sensation, to drag it into a sweet, wonderful agony, before he was fully spent, the blindfold heightening every aspect. The sounds were wet, lewd, before they finally slowed, and all at once, vanished. He slumped on top of you, pulling the scarf off, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  You both breathed in the comfortable silence, and Papyrus planted a long kiss on your back, wrapping his arms around your chest for an almost crushing hug.

  “BESIDES COOKING, AND MAKING PUZZLES, AND MAKING SURE SANS GETS TO WORK ON TIME...” He wheezed, totally spent but high on afterglow, “THIS IS MY FAVOURITE HOBBY.”

  You weakly questioned whether or not sex could be counted as a hobby, rather than simply being a fun activity.

  “AH, I THOUGHT YOU WOULD SAY SOMETHING LIKE THAT! I COULD HEAR IT IN MY MIND. NOT WITH MY EARS, OF COURSE, I DON’T HAVE THOSE. WITH MY MIND-EARS. IN ANY CASE, IT WAS FUN! AND TIRING. AND, IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT, SEX IS A LITTLE GROSS, BUT I DON’T, SO IT’S STILL FUN!”

  He nuzzled into you, hunching. All at once, he recoiled, wobbling unevenly, and you swung around to see him in the midst of a leg cramp.

  “OW, _MOTHERFU_ \--!” 

 

* * *

 

  A loud, baleful noise rang through the town, through the open window of the bar. Grillby paused mid-polish, glass still wet in his hands, the water hissing from his heat.

  "... Did you hear that?"

  Sans chugged his drink.

  “nope.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> if you are interested in more skeleton shenanigans, my tumblr can be found here http://maximum-overboner.tumblr.com/ ^-^


End file.
